A Hostile State

by Adrian Magson

  This time the laughter was nervous. They all knew it was so but it demonstrated a level of caution they each recognized as necessary in these dangerous times. Any appearance of doubt was a contagion to be avoided at all costs.

  Basalayev did not join in, but studied each person in turn. They were all members of a small and exclusive group dealing with highly secretive plans and projects, while remaining outside the normal run of the Moscow elite. Each had long ago given up their public roles in security, military and strategic operations, and their responsibilities now went far deeper than any normal matters of state.

  ‘As you know it was decided that the time had come to send a message to those who threaten us, who seek to interfere in our activities to bolster trade and influence around the world.’

  ‘About time, too.’ The woman again, showing just a hint of impatience when the silence stretched beyond several seconds. Kolodka was the only one in the room who could get away with it, and they all knew it – even the chairman. You didn’t mess with those who were blessed by the hand of the president, as this woman was. Nobody quite knew the details of her relationship with Putin, nor how much of a blessing his hand had been, whether personal, physical, or even spiritual. And none dared ask. The conferred status had been there for a long time and nobody questioned it.

  ‘Indeed. There have been many suggestions raised about building a co-ordinated plan of attack aimed at the Pentagon and other US agencies, to undermine their confidence and sow a level of discord among their field operations. For too long now they have been running free, causing problems in various theatres and allowing other states to think that we are too weak to respond effectively. This has led to certain elements of our security and intelligence apparatus appearing vulnerable … even, dare I say, incompetent. After today that view will no longer be allowed to continue.’ He raised a hand as if to pound the table, then seemed to think better of it.

  Murmurs of assent went round the table. Basalayev was referring to recent failures by the GRU and other agencies in conducting operations against foreign states to silence traitors and agitators. Until now it was not a subject anyone had cared to raise, the events too recent and sufficiently sensitive to render them closed for discussion. The taint of failure was regarded with horror simply because, as they were all old enough to remember, some things in the new modern Russia had barely changed from the old, and the consequences of failure were chilling to contemplate.

  ‘So what exactly is the plan?’ Sergey Grishin, a former general, bore the characteristically blunt manner of many former high-ranking military men. Although as wary as anyone of treading on sensitive toes, he was known to forget himself occasionally. But his intimate experience and knowledge of the Russian military world made him invaluable to the group.

  Basalayev smiled, a hint of rare warmth where there was often none. ‘I must apologize to you all; I have not been entirely open about the progress of events so far because I did not have sufficient confidence that the information we required would be forthcoming. But now, thanks to arrangements by Anatoly, here,’ he nodded to Dolmatov, ‘we can be sure that action is about to be taken against the US operative.’

  Grishin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. He glanced at Dolmatov. ‘I have a question. Taking action can mean only one thing, can it not?’

  Dolmatov nodded. ‘It does. So?’

  ‘Won’t that be met with repercussions?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Basalayev gave a cool smile. ‘If so we will respond further in kind. The Americans will soon understand that we mean business.’

  ‘But … that’s madness.’ If Grishin wished for a brief moment that he could have swallowed his tongue, it was too late to go back. He forged on. ‘A shooting war between our agencies and the Americans benefits nobody. At least, that has always been the considered thinking – or have I got that wrong?’

  There were nods from the others, all looking at Basalayev for confirmation but relieved it had not been they who had come even close to challenging such a radical decision.

  Before he could speak, Kolodka murmured with just a hint of query, ‘Just to clarify, this suggestion comes from the highest level … does it not?’

  It was an oddly-toned question and in most meetings would have been innocuous. But the word highest carried a special ring to it. In most organizations it could have been applied to any corporate CEO or a similar rank; here and now there was only one person to whom it could apply: President Putin himself. Nobody wanted to utter the name, not even, it seemed, Kolodka, even though the men in the room were under no doubts about her role here, which was to discreetly remind them of what they all suspected, in case there was any doubt.

  ‘The highest,’ Basaleyev said. ‘We have full budget approval for this operation and clean, unattributed operatives tasked and briefed, ready to go. In fact they are already in place and have their orders.’

  ‘How clean?’ A thin-faced man named Oleg Voronin, recently recruited to the group and a former senior officer with the Russian Spetsgruppa ‘V’ unit of counter-terrorism and special ops forces, sat forward.

  ‘Unattached clean,’ Dolmatov put in quietly. With unusually heavy brows, coal-black hair and the powerful hands of a lumberjack, which he had once been, he wore the air of a permanently morose man. He was accustomed to varying levels of operatives, from the fully integrated and retained officers, to former operatives now contractors, all the way down to foreign hirelings from allied states such as Bulgaria and Albania. ‘Don’t worry – none of this comes back to this office or to this city.’

  ‘Let us hope not.’ Basalayev allowed the words to sink in before sliding a single briefing sheet to each person, their individual or collective tasks clearly highlighted beneath a printed photo of a man. ‘Not for dissemination outside this room, of course, but for information only. This is the target.’

  Kolodka leaned forward and picked up her copy. She studied the photograph closely and said, ‘Why this person? What is so special about him?’

  One or two of the men studied her for a moment, as if trying to decide whether this was another deliberate insert or a genuine question. She, after all, would not be expected to soil her hands with any actual work; that was down to each of the men. That thought alone was a reminder that if they failed, they stood to incur the greatest penalty.

  Voronin murmured, ‘He’s an enemy of the state. What other reason do we need to take him out?’ He grinned, showing impeccable teeth and waved an apology. ‘Sorry. I’m a simple patriot. You will have to forgive my lack of subtlety in these matters.’

  Basaleyev explained, ‘This man was chosen from a handful of American operatives. He has been a thorn in our side for some time. Unfortunately, until recently we knew very little about him save for the photograph before you. What we do know is that he’s a ghost, working for the Central Intelligence Agency, yet with no direct connections with that agency. They appear to value him highly, according to our information, calling on him for specific tasks where the security of their agents is required but a larger force would attract too much attention.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘He seems an ideal candidate to use as a lesson for them that we will not accept such activity any longer.’

  ‘He’s a contractor, in blunt terms,’ said Dolmatov with a sneer. ‘A freelancer working for money. But given a few hours, not for much longer.’

  Grishin snorted. ‘We have many of those, too, don’t we – contract fighters? But will the Americans miss him? Shouldn’t we be aiming at one of their own instead, to ram home the message?’

  ‘We could,’ Basaleyev agreed mildly. ‘But the message we’re sending is far more important: we will not accept further interference by this man or any other. Any questions?’

  ‘Does this man have a name?’ Kolodka asked, tapping the paper before her.

  Basalayev nodded. ‘Indeed he does. Thanks to Agent Seraphim in Washington and her diligence, we now know much more about him. His code name is Watchman and his real name is Portman
. Marc Portman.’

  THREE

  The shooter must have been on edge. He’d let loose with a volley on full auto, the echoes bouncing around the hillside like a vicious drumbeat. Only the first three or four shots came near me before heading off to who knew where. But that was enough. The rest of the magazine poured down the slope and away, the shells’ energy spent on ploughing up a line of holes in the earth and rocks.

  I was fine with that. I was still in one piece and my attacker had just told me he didn’t know exactly where I was. Using the spray-and-pray technique in the hopes that he’d hit something or scare me into showing myself was an old trick I wasn’t about to fall for.

  Sorry, pal; been there and done that. Didn’t work then, either.

  I kept on going down the slope, skidding and sliding and picking up a painful rash of cuts and digs until I reached the lip of a deep gulley I’d spotted on the way up. I rolled into the bottom and shrugged off my day sack, turning it on its head. To the casual eye it looked like a standard piece of hiking equipment you’d see on a hundred backs all over the world. But this one had been remodelled for me to provide a handy extra in the shape of a hidden compartment in the base. It was accessed by a zipper underneath, and wouldn’t have stood close examination, but so far I hadn’t had to test it. I ripped open the concealment flap held in place by a Velcro strip and tugged at the zipper.

  Inside was a pocket holding the Kahr and spare magazine. The gun was neither big nor accurate enough at distance to scare off my attacker, who was using a rifle. But I’d picked it because it was small enough to conceal and would allow me to dump it easily if I ran into government military personnel or a militant group road block. Right now I was wishing it had a sixteen-inch barrel, a thirty-two-shot mag and a rapid rate of fire so I could spray the hell out of the hillside above and scare the crap out of whoever seemed to want me dead.

  I checked the magazine and clicked it quietly back into place, then closed the flap of the backpack and took the bottle of water from the main compartment. It was warm and tasted like mud but it would keep me going for now. Dehydration can be a killer in hot climes like Lebanon, especially in a combat situation where the body temperature can go up like a rocket. Powered by the stress of the situation it can creep up unnoticed, the dryness of the mouth dismissed as nothing more than par for the course and you can always catch a drink later. Fact is, sometimes that later never comes, and anyway drinking the water was also a distraction exercise while I assessed my situation and my next move. Then I lay still and waited, listening.

  Any hunter who takes a shot at a moving target is automatically disadvantaged by being governed by two powerful factors. If they don’t see a body go down, curiosity makes them desperate to know if they got a hit or not. It’s the not knowing that can eat away at them, especially if there’s no subsequent movement. You shoot and expect the target to fall. Simple as. If it keeps running you try again. But if you can’t see it, you eventually have to go take a closer look. And that’s a dangerous gamble. The target might only be winged yet capable of fighting back. What usually overrides the shooter’s need for caution is the pride thing; pride in their own marksmanship and the struggle to accept that they just might have missed when they held all the cards; that in the seconds between focussing their aim, judging wind-speed, elevation and angles and controlling the desire to get the job done, letting go that final slow outward breath might have been a fraction too quick, dumping enough air and muscle control to induce a faint wobble. And a wobble means a miss.

  The scuff of leather against rock was my first indication that the gunman had moved. Common enough anywhere else, out in the hills the sound was alien, an intrusion that had no place here. There followed several seconds of silence, during which I guessed the shooter was cursing his clumsiness, freezing where he stood but desperate to move. His problem now was that he was probably exposed; he’d come out from where he’d been lying in wait and was standing out there somewhere trying to locate me. I couldn’t see him over the lip of the gulley, but sticking my head up was asking to get it blown off. I needed to get him to move again. But how?

  Simple plays best. It always works in films, anyway. I grabbed a small rock and twisted my body enough to wind up and snap it down the slope and away to the side. It hit and bounced, disappearing from view, the sound carrying clearly in the warm air and sounding surprisingly to me like someone making a fast exit down the hill.

  The shooter must have thought so, too.

  The first shot was loud, and closer than I’d expected. Much closer. He must have followed me down the slope by chance, the sounds of his movements muffled by my ass-sliding progress across the ground to this gulley. Another shot followed, neither of them coming near me. He was tracking the sound of the rock’s progress down the slope. And he was nervous.

  I drew in a deep breath and got to my knees and peered over the lip of the gulley. The guy was standing no more than thirty feet away, his head turning to follow the barrel of his gun as he tracked the direction of the rock. He was tall, dressed in a camo jacket and tan pants, and looked fit and capable. The weapon, an M16, and the way he held himself told me he was military or ex-military. It still didn’t tell me who he was and why he was trying to kill me, but it gave me an indication of what I was up against.

  He must have heard me move. He froze for a split second, before trying to turn and react all in the same moment. It made conflicting demands on an already tense mind and body and slowed him down. Swinging a rifle barrel away from where you’ve convinced yourself there is a target and onto another one isn’t as simple as it looks. It involves a combination of several motor skills, requiring balance, speed and fluidity, and quickness of the eye. This guy was quick, but he was off-balance, one foot lower than the other, his body leaning back to counter the angle of the slope. He also wasn’t sure exactly where I was, only that I was somewhere close.

  There was no time to say anything, no time to see if he had any kind of back-up, although I doubted that was the case, otherwise I’d have heard something. Shooters in pairs have to be able to communicate silently even if they’re in close line-of-sight. Even then it’s almost impossible to remain totally quiet in a hostile situation because each man is relying on knowing what the other is going to do, yet keyed up to ensure they don’t make a mistake that could be fatal to either of them.

  I squeezed the trigger three times in quick succession. Accuracy at thirty feet with a pistol is a tough call, and although I’d had a test-firing session in the gun-dealer’s underground range before coming here, it hadn’t been sufficient to get to know how well the weapon would handle in a stress situation. But I got lucky.

  The shooter stumbled, whether from a hit or not I couldn’t tell yet. I was already moving sideways away from his rifle barrel, lining him up for another three-round volley and making him work harder to pull it round. Then the barrel dropped. He looked confused and shook his head and his body seemed to shake. I clambered out of the gulley and gestured at him with the pistol to drop his weapon. He didn’t respond so I repeated the signal. Then he simply let go of the gun and sank to the ground.

  I circled round to come at him from above. If he was still viable he’d find it tough to grab his rifle, locate me and shoot from a prone position. I could hear his breathing, which sounded hoarse and laboured, but I wasn’t taking anything for granted. Wounded humans are no different to wounded animals, and are often at their most unpredictable and dangerous.

  His rifle had fallen to one side and I stepped over and nudged it away with my foot, watching his hands to check he wasn’t holding a stand-by weapon. The rifle looked surprisingly clean with a just trace of grease on the stock and no dents or dings from battlefield use. That didn’t mean he was a new army recruit but pointed towards it being a recent acquisition from God knew where. Maybe a Lebanese or Syrian armoury.

  I wondered who he was. He looked local enough in colour and build, although he could have come from further afield. Ma
ybe he was a hunter who’d caught a glimpse of me and mistaken me for something else. Or maybe he’d decided to upgrade his life’s experience and go man-hunting instead. Whatever he was and why he’d shot at me, he’d paid a serious price.

  I squatted down beside him and moved his head until he was looking at me. His eyes were flickering and unfocussed and he was trembling with shock. I pulled his camo jacket open to expose his chest and saw he had blood seeping freely from a hole just below the throat. It bubbled and popped, which wasn’t a good sign.

  I checked his pockets for ID and found a pack of cheap cigarettes and a plastic lighter, a few coins and some dried fruit wrapped in greaseproof paper. A hip holster beneath his jacket held a Browning Hi-Power nine millimetre, also clean and in good condition. I tossed that aside and continued searching. One of his breast pockets held a black-and-white snapshot of a man entering a door of what might have been a commercial building. I recognized it immediately and my blood ran cold.

  The man in the photo was me.

  FOUR

  I’d seen an identical photo to the one the gunman was carrying a few years ago. Back then it had been found on a Russian security contractor in Ukraine. It was a surprise then and was no more welcome now. Lightning clearly did strike twice.

  I’d told myself more than once that it was bound to happen some day; the bright light of exposure beaming down on me in spite of the efforts I’d made to stay in the shadows. The world was now so infested with cameras recording our every move, staying out of sight was no longer as simple as it had once been. Sooner or later your likeness will pop up somewhere, caught by accident or intent and filed automatically, to be twinned eventually by a facial recognition software system in a law enforcement or intelligence agency data bank.

  But this was no twin; it was an original. I knew that because I recognized the place where it had been taken: it was outside a CIA front office in New York City and I’d been on the way in to meet Brian Callahan, one of their Clandestine Service Officers. The shot had been lifted from the agency’s security cameras at the entrance and I hadn’t known then how it had got out to a Russian security contractor in Ukraine. Fact was, I still didn’t know.